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Apr. 3rd, 2015 04:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
promenyEarlier this week, I felt that there was no point to living. I mean, I knew that there wasn't, but humans nonetheless have a need to have a point. We demand structure and systems, even if we know that reality does not perfectly conform to whatever we either perceive or construct, if it does at all. This need is still around even if we are smart enough to know this, which few people are (I'm not even saying that out of haughtiness). So as such, I was having an existential crisis in which I was smart enough to predict, but not smart enough to think myself out of.
I escaped, though. How? I just did things with my life, like cooking and reading more books. It doesn't matter what you do with your life, so long as you are not bored. I suppose that is the point to life, unofficially; to keep yourself entertained so that you don't kill yourself or otherwise commit harm. I suppose it would depend on what kind of entertainment you enjoy, for some very fun things are crimes and you'll end up in prison, wearing a bow on your head and be called a new name, "Cinnamon". I don't want to talk about what else could happen. Just stay active, and you won't stagnate; I need to stay active mentally because my mind is both the source of my strengths and vulnerabilities. That could probably be said for anyone, but it is especially true for me, because when I started reading books voraciously a little less than two years ago, most of my problems went away.
I can actually cook somewhat decently now. Hamburgers, Rice with Chinese Sausage, Potato Pancakes, Shepard's Pie...this makes me feel like I can survive on my own. Just a few weeks ago I only knew how to eat out of cans and boil water; now I can actually cook meals. I'm an adult, now.
When I read a book concerning dangerous patients in the psychiatric field, I learned a hell of a lot. One thing I learned was that the most humiliating thing that ever happened to me was not in the slightest bit my fault, and I feel so relieved now. I forgive myself, and now know that almost anyone in my position would have made the same mistake, especially knowing how my father treated me like a drooling retard for several days prior to the incident. I still don't forgive either my father or the other bastard, but that is irrelevant. All that matters is that I take the blame away from myself. If it wasn't for my father, I would have just wrote off the other person has having their own problem, and would have brushed it off, but the abuse of the two combined broke me. Fortunately, that won't ever happen again, or at least I won't let it.
In other news, I'm not going to abuse any drugs for a while, at least nowhere near the extent that I did recently. I need to recover, and drugs get boring after a while in any case, even without tolerance. So far, I'm doing okay, although I'm having some VERY fucked up dreams.
I escaped, though. How? I just did things with my life, like cooking and reading more books. It doesn't matter what you do with your life, so long as you are not bored. I suppose that is the point to life, unofficially; to keep yourself entertained so that you don't kill yourself or otherwise commit harm. I suppose it would depend on what kind of entertainment you enjoy, for some very fun things are crimes and you'll end up in prison, wearing a bow on your head and be called a new name, "Cinnamon". I don't want to talk about what else could happen. Just stay active, and you won't stagnate; I need to stay active mentally because my mind is both the source of my strengths and vulnerabilities. That could probably be said for anyone, but it is especially true for me, because when I started reading books voraciously a little less than two years ago, most of my problems went away.
I can actually cook somewhat decently now. Hamburgers, Rice with Chinese Sausage, Potato Pancakes, Shepard's Pie...this makes me feel like I can survive on my own. Just a few weeks ago I only knew how to eat out of cans and boil water; now I can actually cook meals. I'm an adult, now.
When I read a book concerning dangerous patients in the psychiatric field, I learned a hell of a lot. One thing I learned was that the most humiliating thing that ever happened to me was not in the slightest bit my fault, and I feel so relieved now. I forgive myself, and now know that almost anyone in my position would have made the same mistake, especially knowing how my father treated me like a drooling retard for several days prior to the incident. I still don't forgive either my father or the other bastard, but that is irrelevant. All that matters is that I take the blame away from myself. If it wasn't for my father, I would have just wrote off the other person has having their own problem, and would have brushed it off, but the abuse of the two combined broke me. Fortunately, that won't ever happen again, or at least I won't let it.
In other news, I'm not going to abuse any drugs for a while, at least nowhere near the extent that I did recently. I need to recover, and drugs get boring after a while in any case, even without tolerance. So far, I'm doing okay, although I'm having some VERY fucked up dreams.
